The Hallowed Isle Book Two (22 page)

He was waving his hands to repel the dog when something moved on the hill. He looked up, saw a blur in the air, and threw up his arm. There was a crack. He reeled, then gasped as pain flared through his arm like white fire. Someone was running towards him, whirling a slingshot in one hand and brandishing a staff in the other; Oesc stepped back, caught his heel in a root and went down.

The stick whistled through the air where his head had been. He rolled as it thwacked downward, and made a grab for his assailant. His good hand closed on a slim ankle and he pulled. The staff went flying and they grappled, rolling over and over in the wet grass.

His foe was wiry as a wildcat, but Oesc was a trained fighting man, and despite his useless arm, in a few moments his size and strength began to tell. It was only when he had got his opponent's arm in a twist and the thrashing legs locked between his own long limbs that he realized his attacker was a girl.

For several moments neither could do more than gasp. He stared down into a heart-shaped face, flushed now with fury and surrounded by a Medusa-tangle of nut-brown hair. Her eyes were a gold-flecked brown, like amber, he thought, gazing into them, or honey-mead.

“A fine welcome you give to strangers here on the Downs,” he said finally.

“I thought you were a robber.” Her gaze fixed on the fine embroidery at the neck of his tunic, and the golden arm ring. “They've taken two sheep in the past week. I thought they'd come back again.” She tensed, trying to free herself, and he was abruptly aware that it was a female body that lay crushed beneath his own.

“It's not mutton I would have from you—” He muttered, and kissed her, at first a light brush of the lips that held her still with surprise, and then hungrily, until she began to struggle once more beneath him and he came up for air, his heart beating hard in his breast.

“How
dare
you!” She got a hand free and tried to box his ear. He pinned her with his body, since he could not use his arm.

“You owe me some weregild—I think you've broken my arm—” he began, and felt her stiffen.

“You're a Saxon!”

He stared at her, and realized they had been speaking in the British tongue.

“A Myrging, to be more precise, and your master—” he said then.

“Then you
are
a robber, after all! My grandfather was lord of this land!”

“You're Prince Gorangonus's kin? We're well matched then, for
my
grandfather took Cantium away from him.” He grinned down as her face flushed with angry color once more. His body was urging him to take her, but this was no thrall to be tumbled on a hillside, even if at the moment she looked more like a troll-maid than the daughter of a royal house.

“Hengest's brat—” On her lips it was a curse.

“Hengest's heir,” he corrected softly, “and Cantium's king . . .”

“How can you be the king, when you were born across the sea?” She had stopped struggling, and sorrow was extinguishing the fire in her eyes.

“So were the Romans, when they came here—” He released her and sat up, wincing as the movement jarred his arm. “And it was they who put your father's fathers on that throne.”

“Perhaps, but it was my mother's mothers who gave them the right to rule. That's why I came back—” She gestured towards the misty sweep of the Downs. “Folk of my blood have dwelt here since before the Romans, even before the Cantiaci came. This land belongs to me!”

For a moment Oesc felt the moist chill of the shrine on the Meduwege once more and remembered how its spirit had spoken to him there. There was a sense in which her claim was true. Men ruled by right of conquest, but sovereignty came from the Goddess and the queens who were her priestesses. Still, he knew better than to admit that, or to point out that without the power to defend it, she might as well have been the wild child she appeared.

“What is your name, granddaughter of Gorangonus?” He winced as an unwary movement jarred his arm, the same that had been broken in Londinium.

“I am called Rigana, for my mother said I should have the name of a queen even if I spent my days keeping sheep upon the hills.”

“Very well, then,” said Oesc. “I will treat with you as a king does with a queen. Give me shelter. Bind up my arm and tend my horse, which has gone lame, and when my men come to find me you shall have gold.”

In a single supple movement she was on her feet, looking down at him.

“That is not the way you treat a queen, but an inn-wife. It is as a queen I will shelter you, for you are the suppliant. But the boy who helps us will go for your men as fast as he may, for I would not have the sight and smell of you in my house for one hour longer than hospitality compels.”

Clean, warm, and dry at last, Betiver considered the captive Anglian lords. It made him shiver even now to remember what a near thing the battle had been. A score of times during that dreadful morning he had been sure they were beaten. But whenever he could stop to draw breath long enough to consider surrender he had seen that Artor was still fighting, and gritted his teeth, and kept on. He was not ashamed at his own grim satisfaction—now it was he who was dressed like a prince, and the Anglians who were gashed and grimy. However the reversal of fortune did not seem to have daunted their pride.

“Look at Icel!” exclaimed Gualchmai. “Lounging at his ease, as if he still held this hall! You would think he'd be showing a wee bit of apprehension. Did he never hear about the Night of the Long Knives?”

“He trusts to Artor's honor, and besides, that atrocity was the work of Hengest's Saxons. They may all look like the same kind of barbarian to us, but to Icel, his folk are as different from the other tribes as, say, your Votadini are from the Picts who are their neighbors.”

“Hmph. Well, I won't deny the Picts have come to us at times for husbands for their princesses. But their sons are raised by their uncles, and mother's milk is stronger than father's blood.”

Betiver lifted a hand to silence him. Artor stood in the doorway, drawing men's eyes and stilling their tongues. He too had taken advantage of Lindum's baths, and had dressed in a Roman tunic of saffron-dyed linen with bands of purple silk coming down over the shoulders to the hem and patches bearing eagles worked in gold. His mantle, also edged in goldwork, was of a red so deep it was almost purple, and he wore a Roman diadem upon his brow. Cai, behind him, was actually wearing a toga. Gualchmai whistled softly and grinned.

“Is it the emperor himself who's come to call on us? I hope Icel is impressed.”

There had been a flicker of appreciation in Icel's grey eyes, but his face showed no emotion at all. That clothing had certainly never made the muddy journey from Londinium. Betiver, wondering which rich merchant had provided it, fought to keep his own face still. Icel had sought to impress them as a folk-king, lord of a mighty people, but Artor was meeting him as the heir of Rome.

Moving with conscious dignity, Artor seated himself on the carved chair on the dais, and Betiver and Gualchmai took their places with Cai behind him. Icel and two of his surviving chieftains, still in the grubby tunics they had worn beneath their mail, had been given low benches on the floor.

“You fought well,” said Artor, “but your gods have given you into my hand.”

“Woden betrayed us,” muttered one of the chieftains. “Nine stallions we gave him, and yet he did not give victory.”

“But many of your warriors earned a place in his house-guard,” said Artor, who had learned something of the German religion when Oesc was his captive. Icel responded with a rather wintry smile.

“Woden will take care of his own. My care is for the living. What is your will for those who are your prisoners?”

“Kill them,” muttered Cataur, “as they slaughtered our men.”

Most of those who had survived the battle, thought Betiver, belonged to Icel's houseguard, who had made a fortress of flesh around their king. If he had fallen, they would not have survived him, and only Icel's order could have made them lay down their arms. He leaned close to Gualchmai. “He doesn't ask about himself—”

Gualchmai snorted derisively. “He knows the high king cannot afford to let him go.”

But Artor was leaning on the acanthus-carved arm of his chair, resting his chin on his hand, and frowning.

“What would you have me do?”

The question disturbed Icel's composure at last. “What do you mean?”

“You are their king—what did your people seek on these shores?”

“Land! Land that will not wash away in the winter rains!”

Artor raised one eyebrow, indicating with a turn of the head the flooded wastes outside the town, and someone laughed. But Icel was shaking his head.

“Oh yes, this land floods, but the water will go away again and leave it all the richer. We can ditch and dam and make good fields. The river is not so greedy as the sea.”

“The Romans did not have that craft—”

Icel's lips twitched again. “The Romans built like etins, great works of pride and power that forced earth to their will. Our farmers are content to work with willow wands and mud and coax our Mother to be kind.”

Artor's gaze moved slowly around the faded frescoes of the old basilica, and the worn mosaics on the floor, and he sighed.

“The Romans were mighty indeed, but they are gone, and the land remains,” he said then. “And save for your folk, there are now none left to till that soil.”

Something flickered in Icel's gaze at the words, but he kept his features still. Cataur's face began to darken dangerously.

“Many men of my blood have died,” Artor went on, “but my duty is to the living also. To leave this place a wasteland and its shores desolate will serve no one. But I
am
high king, and any who would dwell here must go under my yoke.” He frowned at Icel. “If I give you your lives, will you and your folk take oath to me, to hold these coasts and defend them in my name? As the Romans gave districts to the Franks and Burgunds and Visigoths, I will give the Lindenses lands to you, saving only Lindum itself, which I judge my own people better able to garrison.”

As the Vor-Tigernus gave land to Hengest
. . . thought Betiver grimly,
and look what that led to!
But Hengest's men had been a rag-tag of mercenaries and masterless men, not a nation. It was the same agreement Artor had made with Oesc, in the end, and that seemed to be working well.

There was a short silence. “What guarantees . . . would you require?” the Anglian king said then.

“That you shall swear never again to take arms against me or my heirs, to defend these lands against all others, and to send a levy of warriors at my call. You shall pay a yearly tribute, its size contingent upon the size of your harvest, and in cases affecting men not of your people, be judged by my laws. I further require that you give up all looted goods and treasure, that one son from each of your noble families shall be sent as hostage to dwell among the youths of my household, and that all warriors who are not of your tribe shall remain my prisoners.”

Cataur surged forward, and Gualchmai moved to stand between him and the dais. “My lord, you cannot do this! He's a
Saxon
. . .”

“An Anglian,” Artor corrected coldly, “and I am your king—”

“Not if you betray us!” Cataur exclaimed, his hands twitching as if he reached for someone's throat. But Gwyhir and Aggarban had come to stand beside their brother, and Morgause's three sons made a formidable barrier. “You'll regret this day!” Still sputtering, Cataur whirled and strode from the room. Gualchmai started after him, but Artor waved him back.

It took a few minutes for the murmur of comment to die down. But despite the fact that there were those on both sides who like Cataur would obviously rather have kept on fighting, it was a fair offer. Indeed, it was more than generous, especially when the alternative was to be slaughtered like a sheep, without even a sword in one's hand. Icel must have hoped for something like this, even if he had not dared to expect it.

Icel got to his feet, his eyes still fixed on Artor. “I am the folk-lord, and I stand for my people before the gods. But for all things that belong to this land and the Britons I will give my oath to you.”

Artor gestured to one of the guards. “Unloose his bonds.” He looked back at Icel. “As you keep faith with me, so shall I with you, for the sake of Britannia.”

A little past sunset three weeks after Oesc returned from his ill-fated hunting trip, the hounds who ran loose around his hall began barking furiously. Oesc, who had been drinking to ease the ache in his arm and trying not to think about Rigana, sat up, and Wulfhere rose to his feet, reaching for the spear that leaned against the door.

“Who comes to the hall of Oesc the king?”

“One who carried him on his saddlebow when he was a boy, came the gruff answer, “and I have not made my way across half Britannia, beset by enemies, to be challenged in Hengest's hall!” Taking advantage of Wulfhere's astonishment, the newcomer shouldered past him and into the light of the fire. Two other men came after him, looking about them nervously.